


Brooklyn's Golden Sunlight

by Cas_tellations



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pet Names, Scars, Sunsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cas_tellations/pseuds/Cas_tellations
Summary: He stares at Bucky through the last dregs of the golden sun, his jaw propped open in awe. Bucky’s the epitome of beauty, from those elegant eyelashes to the capturing blue of his eyes and the graceful lines of his body. He stares at Bucky through the sun, and they’re in the 21st century, but it feels right in a way that the 21st century has never felt before. Like finally, he fits. Finally, he knows exactly where he’s supposed to be.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 7
Kudos: 61





	Brooklyn's Golden Sunlight

Bucky’s body is beautiful.

 _Beautiful._ It’s a simple word in Steve’s mind as he mulls it over in his head, sees the angles. He tastes the word on his tongue as it spills from his lips, splitting the air that had previously been pierced with only long breaths and the rustle of skin against fabric. 

Bucky’s pupils are blown wide as he poses for Steve. 

Summer’s later afternoon sun flows through the open window behind Steve, paper-thin curtains pushed to the side and billowing slightly. The breeze is comfortably warm against his exposed back and neck. The sound of traffic overlays most everything else, but he can still hear birdsong from somewhere. If it was a little quieter he could have mistaken it for all those late-night Brooklyn summers spent with Bucky by his side in the ‘40s, sitting on the roof, watching Bucky smoke and sketching the lines of his face and the curl of grey reaching towards a brilliant sunset. 

He holds a paintbrush in hand now, trading out the pencil and 75-odd years. 

He looks at Bucky freely, his eyes bright as he catalogues every curve and dip and scar on Bucky’s body. He knows Bucky’s body more than he knows his own. Or, alternatively, he had known Bucky’s body more than his own in the ‘40s. Through the war, too, he had a pretty good idea despite the dim light that army bases had to offer, as they fell together into bunks with barely enough room for one of them. Steve would always get his hands under Bucky’s clothes, feeling all that skin broken through with scars. 

He knows where all the old war scars are. He knows that Bucky has a splatter of moles across his back that mirror the constellation _Leo_. He knows that there’s a raised bump of pink forever hooked just below his kneecap from falling on the pavement a little bit too hard as a child. 

He knows about the scars that Bucky had taken for him, back when he had to jump in front of bullies. 

What’s less familiar is the huge mass of raised flesh around his left arm and the long, surgical mark down his spine where a metal rod is, cutting through the makeshift constellation and offering support to an arm too heavy to be held in place by bone alone. 

His collarbone on his left side had been replaced with a metal one, he had told Steve, and his sternum had been reinforced enough that Steve can see a bump where it should be flat. 

When Stark had taken X-rays of Bucky’s body, Steve had barely been able to handle it. He’s just glad Natasha had been there with them as a solid, unwavering rock to swing around back to. He had collapsed later, had sobbed later at how _unfair_ it all was. 

There’s lash marks covering most of Bucky’s body. 

There’s a toe missing on one foot, and two missing from the other. 

A bullet must have gone straight through his body at one point because there’s a perfect circular scar under his ribs on the right side, and a matching one on his back. 

Some of the old wounds remind Steve of when soldiers get hit with shrapnel. 

He loses count of the scars that should have been fatal. It’s the scars that dent the flesh, that are bright and too close to arteries, the ones that are brutal and ruthless and too _deep._ Bucky should have died. Time and time again, he should have died. He should have died when he fell from the train, and he should have died when Hydra found him. He should have died in the war and after it, should have died between the missions when he was starved and in the chamber where he was frozen and in the chair where he was lit up with electricity. 

He didn’t, though. 

He’s here - in the flesh, in the scar tissue. He’s here on the bed in front of Steve on the second-hand sheets that Stark had teased them about getting. He’s here on the canvas, and he’s here in Steve’s soul. 

Steve presses the paintbrush against the canvas, layering on more oil paints until he captures the exact shade of Bucky’s skin and his hair and his _eyes -_ wide and bright and staring at Steve like Steve is something _important_. 

It’s been hours of this, by now. Steve’s hands are covered in paint, and his heart burns as he looks upon the man to which he is prepared to risk everything for, over and over again. 

Bucky’s face is tinged with pink, the flush highlighting his cheeks. He is outlined in gold from the streaming sun and his hair flutters around his face, framing him. His lips are a perfect shade of red and only a little bit chapped. He has a little bit of stubble growing around his jaw, but it’s barely a shadow. His eyes catch on Steve’s and don’t let him go. They’re an ethereal shade of blue, vivid and full of _life_ despite it all. His eyes haven’t changed since the ‘40s. Some of the soldiers who had come home had kept a haunting look to them no matter what, but Bucky’s aren’t like that. God knows he has his demons, but his eyes - his eyes _scream_ life in all of its beauty. 

Steve licks his lips. He can’t help it - all of a sudden, his mouth is dry. 

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky says, laying stretched out with all of his perfect skin on display against clean sheets, “you almost done there?” 

“Yeah - yeah, Buck,” Steve says, almost choking on his words. He’s not almost done - he could keep working on it for hours and hours, and even then he’s not sure he’d have enough time to see all of the little details scattered across Bucky’s body. 

Bucky’s lips twist up into one of those prize-winning smiles, one of those smiles that Steve can picture all too well in front of the backdrop of a ticker tape parade as they race down the street, Steve always a step or two behind Bucky but Bucky always, constantly looking over his shoulder to Steve, casting that goddamn smile out into the world. 

“C’mere, then.” Bucky says, and Steve is there in a _heartbeat._

He gets to the edge of the bed in a stride and a half and reaches a hand out without thinking _._ He just wants to be _closer._ He stops before his paint-covered hands touch Bucky’s pristine skin because he’s not _sure._

It’s been too long since they’d last been here, like this. 

75-odd years. 

Bucky’s been back with him for just over half a year. Their touches have been far and few between. Just because Bucky’s back doesn’t mean the road to recovery is something that can be ignored. It’s a long road. They may never truly leave it’s winding paths, but it’s getting better. Every day and every hour that they leave Hydra behind them, it feels better. But it’s been 75 years and Steve isn’t sure if he's allowed _._

_Allowed to love Bucky like he used to._

_Allowed to touch as freely as he was looking._

When Steve falters, Bucky grabs his wrist, catches it before it draws away and flips his hand palm-up, draws him close enough to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of Steve’s wrist. Steve doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t dare move. 

Because this - this right here - is perfect. 

The sunlight is so warm on his back. It cascades onto Buck where Steve’s shadow doesn’t fall. The sounds of traffic have dimmed as rush hour comes to a close. The breeze is cooling, and it’s a welcome relief against sun-kissed skin. The old wooden floor beneath his feet feels just like their old apartment. 

Bucky’s smile makes his heart unravel, love and care and passion flooding every inch of his entire serum-enhanced body. He can smell flowers on the wind. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, and tugs at him, “please.” 

Steve can feel his eyes filling with tears despite him telling himself over and over again to keep it together. He gets a knee on the bed, and it sinks down under him. He doesn’t know what to say. Bucky kisses his wrist again, then holds Steve’s hand above his heart. There’s a scar there, too. Like someone tried to pluck his heart out with a knife. 

“Lookin’ at me like you used to,” Bucky huffs a breathy laugh, “like I’m important.” 

“You are,” Steve says, almost cutting Bucky off in his haste, “the most important thing. Always. _Forever._ ”

He chokes as the urge to cry washes over him again, because God - God, it feels like how it used to before everything went sideways. It feels like Bucky had just told Steve that he loves him. It feels like it did before the war when it was just them without Howard Stark and Peggy - without the Avengers and a life so easily swallowed by battle after battle. 

“Don’t go all crying on me, Stevie,” Bucky says gently, “hey, Stevie, darling. Look at me, will you?” His cybernetic arm stays limp by his side, but he reaches up with the one that had been holding onto Steve and hooks it around his jaw. 

Desperately, Steve clings to Bucky’s forearm with both hands. For most people, he’d be holding on too tightly. Bucky has always matched him in everything, though. 

Bucky slides his hand from Steve’s face, trails it down his neck and across his chest until he gets it around his waist and pulls Steve closer, swinging him up fully onto the sheets. Steve has a knee on either side of Bucky, and suddenly he can’t stop touching. 

He presses his fingertips to the scar directly above Bucky’s heart and then pressed his palm flat against it, his other hand resting on the side of Bucky’s face, cradling the jaw that’s going to be scruffy soon, if Bucky doesn’t shave. He rubs a thumb over the stubble, and fans his fingers out across his chest. 

Bucky breathes a sigh, and goes lax under Steve’s gentle, careful touch. 

“Tell me when to stop.” Steve murmurs, eyes flitting from Bucky’s to a scar on his neck. 

“Don’t stop.” Bucky says, shifting his shoulders against the bed and tipping his chin up, pressing his head further into a pillow. 

Steve doesn’t want to stop. He could do this forever, could spend the rest of his life here, on top of Bucky in golden sunlight and be completely happy, always. 

He feels Bucky’s heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his breaths beneath his calloused hands. He traces every line of Bucky’s body that he had just painted - the line of his neck, fingers against his windpipe to his clavicle, and across his collar bones. 

When he reaches the cybernetic arm, Bucky gives a sharp shake of his head. 

“No?” Steve confirms, hand already moving back towards his chest. 

“Not yet,” Bucky says, “one day, maybe.” 

Steve nods, and presses his paint-covered fingers to the spaces between Bucky’s ribs, splaying his palms across the tangle of skin and scars. He feels every inch of Bucky and Bucky lets him, his own hand running along Steve’s exposed skin as well. 75 years is a lifetime. 75 years is far too long. It’s been 75 years since the last time Steve got to do this. 

75 years since he had last touched Bucky like this. 

He ducks his head, pressed his forehead against Bucky’s chest, and collapses against his body, pressing as much of their skin together as he can. He wants to be _closer._ He wants to curl up _inside_ Bucky’s chest; wants to be surrounded by this feeling of warmth and care and _love._ He wants it all for himself, for the rest of time. He feels Bucky’s hand in his hair, fingers massaging in a way that has Steve sighing against his chest. 

“You always liked your hair being played with, didn’t you, Stevie?” His voice is gentle and as liquid gold as the sun is. 

Steve hums against him, “don’t stop.” 

“You’re gorgeous, darling,” Bucky says, with more of a Brooklyn twinge than normal, “don’t know what I ever did to deserve this. To deserve _you._ But Jesus - I’m grateful.” 

Steve’s cheeks heat up at Bucky’s continued praise. It doesn’t help with the build-up of tears. It feels so good to be held like this. It feels better than anything else in the world, to have Bucky alive under him, to have Bucky praising him and to have that Brooklyn sunset on his back. 

“What’re you crying for?” Bucky says, after a moment passes. 

“Missed you.” Steve says, forcing himself to take a huge deep breath of Bucky’s scent, “missed you so much.” He can feel Bucky’s breath stutter in his chest. 

“Well,” he says softly, pulling Steve’s face up and cupping his jawline, his thumb resting against Steve’s slightly parted lips, “I’m right here,” he pulls Steve closer, and Steve goes, because he’s wanted whatever Bucky is prepared to give him for as long as he can remember, “you don’t have to miss me anymore.” 

When Bucky kisses him, it feels like the universe is finally re-aligning on its axis. It feels like the way a sunrise feels, all tender and merciful. It’s a beginning, and it’s the brightest goddamn star in all of the skies. Steve’s tears fall on Bucky’s cheeks, and his hands shake where they hold onto Bucky’s shoulder and chest. 

“Don’t leave me again,” Steve says, and it sounds like a plea but he can’t help it. “Stay. Forever.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says, and catches Steve’s lower lip between his teeth. 

After that, they don’t say anything for a long, long time. 

Steve presses Bucky into the mattress, and Bucky lets him, hand on the back of Steve’s head, in his hair, tilting his head to the side and kissing him in a way that has Steve begging for more, pulling himself closer and closer to Bucky. Steve’s tears are gone as he licks into Bucky’s mouth, tastes him after so long. 

“Please,” Steve gasps, hands clinging onto Bucky, “please, Buck - can you -” 

“I got you,” Bucky says, and slides his hand across Steve’s body, pausing at the small of his back before continuing to the curve of his ass in his paint-splattered jeans.

Steve arches back into it, “Buck -Buck, it’s been so long-” he babbles in the setting sun, “touch me?” 

Whatever reply Bucky tries to give is swallowed up by Steve, their mouths moving in perfect sync. Under Steve’s hands, Bucky’s skin is heating up, sweat glistening against his perfect, gorgeous body with the sun’s help. His chest rises and falls quicker, and his heart speeds up to match as he tucks a hand into Steve’s back pocket. Every single fibre of Steve’s being yearns for Bucky to touch him more, for him to undress him and take control of Steve’s body. 

In a fluid motion, Bucky flips them over, his mouth not leaving Steve’s for even a _picosecond_. His cybernetic arm brackets himself above Steve, and his other hand moves down to Steve’s belt, undoes it in moments and pulls it out of the loops. 

He keeps his hand splayed against Steve’s lower stomach, two fingers barely hooked under the edge of Steve’s jeans, holding him down despite Steve trying desperately to press up against Bucky’s touch. 

Bucky holds him there, and Steve grows uncomfortably hard in his jeans, his whines and breathy gasps barely making it past his lips. 

“ _Please, Buck,”_ Steve manages, arching his spine, “please, I really - need you.” His breath hitches as Bucky moves down his body, lips pressed to Steve’s neck. Steve arches his neck back tilts his head to the side, giving Bucky as much space as possible to get his teeth against skin. He burns with desperation as Bucky’s hand doesn’t come any closer to touching him, and he tangles his hands with Bucky’s long hair, holds him where he is and tries to push himself against Bucky to gain any sense of relief. 

A wave of arousal washes through Steve when there’s no _give_ to Bucky’s frame. He is just as strong as Steve is if not _stronger,_ and Steve’s not going to be able to move unless Bucky _lets_ him. 

When Bucky’s mouth returns to his, Steve damn near moans. 

Bucky pulls back after biting at Steve’s lip hard enough to make him whine, and sits up, still straddling Steve’s thighs. Steve’s eyes are blown wide open, the flecks of green in the wide blue of his eyes bright and shining. On a whim, Steve raches down himself, tries to undo his fly and - 

Bucky’s metal hand grabs his wrist and pins it to the bed next to Steve’s head _hard._

“Don’t move.” He says, though his voice is still soft, so full of care that Steve can’t do anything _except_ turn to putty, melting into the mattress. 

He stares at Bucky through the last dregs of the golden sun, his jaw propped open in awe. Bucky’s the _epitome_ of beauty, from those elegant eyelashes to the capturing blue of his eyes and the graceful lines of his body. He stares at Bucky through the sun, and they’re in the 21st century, but it feels right in a way to which the 21st century has never felt before. Like finally, he fits. Finally, he knows exactly where he’s supposed to be. 

For the first time since the helicarriers, Bucky touches Steve with the cybernetic arm. 

“Please, Buck,” Steve says, “please, I need you.” 

“I’m here,” Bucky says, “I got you Stevie, sweetheart,” the pet names tumble from his lips as he _finally_ unzips Steve’s fly and pushes himself to his knees to work the jeans over Steve’s hips. They land in a rumpled pile to the floor next to the belt. 

Steve quivers under Bucky, wants to touch Bucky and touch himself, wants to have Bucky open him up all slow and teasing and then push into him _hard_ so that Steve _screams._ He wants Bucky to spend hours leisurely spreading Steve open with his fingers and his tongue like that one time in France - 

Steve’s body spasms when Bucky’s hand touches Steve’s achingly hard cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. 

Steve squirms under Bucky’s hold, instinctively trying to reach out and grab _something._ He gets one hand on Bucky’s chest, fists his fingers and presses his knuckles to Bucky’s chest. “Please, Buck - oh God, _please_.”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Bucky says with a roll of a Brooklyn accent. 

He keeps his touches featherlight, barely _skimming_ against Steve’s boxers. Steve hadn’t forgotten about this - the way that Bucky loves to string people along, to push them to their edge before he even thinks of giving them the release that they so desperately need. Steve arches against him, presses himself up into Bucky’s hand, but Bucky drws away, smiling gently down at Steve’s heaving body. 

“Have I ever told you,” Bucky says with a rasp, “how stupidly gorgeous you are, Steve Rogers?” 

The sun hasn’t quite gone all the way down yet, and though the golden hues are lighter than they had been earlier, they still stretch over the two of them, illuminating their features, capturing every rise and fall of their paired breaths and glistening bodies. 

“Because you are,” Bucky keeps going, returning to lazily stroking Steve’s length with his fingertips, “you were beautiful back in the ‘40s, and you were beautiful on the battlefield, too. You’ve always been stunning in a way that nobody else can really reach, you know that? And - Stevie, darling, when you were painting me… the way that the sun put a halo around your gorgeous head - you looked like an angel, and your smile… your smile is something special, sweetheart.” 

Bucky leans in close for a sweet kiss that lingers when Steve licks across his lips, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, that we exist. That I - that I get to have you here, with me, even though I’ve done -” Bucky lets out a laugh, the short and deprecating kind, “-I’ve done the absolute worst things. But you’re still here.” He says, in wonder, “You’re still here, Steve.” 

Steve leans up for a kiss and Bucky crashes into him halfway, claiming his mouth with his own. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Bucky says, and smiles down at Steve with a look so saturated and full of care and love that Steve’s eyes well up with tears, again. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, and kisses him, again and again. 

“Buck, I- _I love you_ .” Steve says, his heart twisting in his chest, “ _so much_.” 

He’s said those words in the past. They both have, but it had never felt like this - so electrified, so charged with 75 years and far too much space between them. Steve can’t help but say it, it’s ripped out of him like a comet falling into a planet, pulled by a gravitational force that’s impossible to resist. 

Bucky stares at him, and his hand pauses its slight movements. Steve looks at him evenly, every piece of him aching. 

“You… you love _me_ ?” Bucky says, softly, quietly enough that Steve has to strain to hear him even with their close proximity. “ _Still_?” 

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, because it’s the only thing in the world that he’s actually _sure_ about. Even with the helicarriers, when it seemed like the whole world was burning to the ground and nothing would ever be the same again, Steve _knew._ Even when Bucky had some pretty girl hanging off his arm, and even when they were being open fired at on the battlefield, Steve _knew._ When they were fighting on the bridge, Steve was absolutely positive about one fact and one fact _only:_ He loves James Buchanan Barnes, and he will _always_ love him, even if the entire world was raining down around their shoulders. “ _Forever._ ” he says, and Bucky’s grip on his hand goes slack, so Steve worms free. 

He brackets Bucky’s face with his hands, holding him still, “I’m always going to love you, Buck. I don’t- I don’t have a way to _define_ love without you.” 

Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. Three times, and then he leans forwards, slowly, and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. 

With every moment he gets stronger, pushing Steve back down, turning from chaste to downright filthy. The sun has gone down completely now, and Steve isn’t sure what time that makes it, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if the painting never gets finished or if someone’s watching them through the still-open window. 

All he cares about is the feeling of Bucky over him, and then the sound of Bucky cursing into Steve’s mouth and sitting back up to reach for Steve’s boxers, tossing them aside and roughly taking both their cocks in hand. 

Steve _keens,_ throwing his head back and thrusting his hips _hard_ into Bucky’s fist. 

“You know, sweetheart,” Bucky says, between gasps. He presses his forehead against Steve’s and jerks their lengths between them, precome slicking up his fist and _God,_ Steve hasn’t felt this _good_ in 75 years, “for the record… I love you, too.”

_Bucky loves me._

Steve’s eyes flutter shut and his hips stutter into Bucky’s hand, and he throws his hands out wildly, grabbing onto Bucky and pulling him closer and closer as he _comes._

He hears Bucky gasp and feels his hand twisting and squeezing _perfectly,_ and then his mouth crashes into Steve’s and Steve parts his lips, letting Bucky do _whatever_ he wants and _everything_ he wants because it feels so _good._

“You’re so perfect, Bucky” Steve says, a daze taking over him, “so perfect.” 

“Right back at you, Steve.” Bucky says, in that beautiful blissed out tone of voice. He shifts so that he can lay with his head pillowed on Steve’s chest, a sticky mess between them. They’ll clean up later. Steve will finish the painting later. Later, they’ll go down the street to that little coffee shop and they’ll both order something with a sugar content higher than the amount of caffeine, and then they’ll jog off the calories at the park. Later, they’ll get up. Later, they’ll move. Later, Steve will have to stand on legs not made of jelly. 

Right now though… Right now, Steve wraps both of his arms around Bucky’s body and hugs him tight. Bucky lets out a relaxed sigh, and Steve can feel his eyes shut. His body usually is full of taut, overworked muscles, but now, they relax under Steve’s touch. 

Steve drops a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. 

The sun has gone down, and it’s tricky with the light pollution from the city, but Steve can pick out one or two bright stars, hanging where the sun had been. 

_Let’s keep this moment,_ he thinks up at the stars, _let’s keep this moment for the rest of time._


End file.
